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Author Topic: A Story - English GT  (Read 2043 times)
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A Knife In The Dark Can Accomplish More Than A Thousand Swords In The Day

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A Knife In The Dark, From The Shadows I Come

« on: October 21, 2007, 11:52:15 AM »

This Is A Story I Have Written. It is about High Elves, a tall and proud people, Comments would be appreciated.
 It is a rough draft, so excuse any mistakes, and it is a small part of my collection of Ideas for the plot.
You don't have to read all of it.  *wink* It's just there in case you do.

*The coming night was in a bitter struggle against the flaming buildings, embers constantly glinting and flickering, like stars eternally bound to the earth. With a unnerving quail, a large beam of the manor splintered and cracked, falling into the smouldering lower levels, churning up a thick, suffocating cloud of black smoke. The stairs to the elaborate manor were completely engulfed, waves of heat emanated from the failing ground level. Navarion leapt over the charcoaled wood that once was the front doorway and into the carnage of the streets. The din of battle seemed to dull the continuous crackle and hiss of the burning villa. The clash of steel on steel rang through the air; desperate cries heralded the defenders shattered attempts of resistance. The Druchii had broken the surprised Asur citizen levy; nine abominable warships of the Dark Elves had landed unseen on the edge of Tar Valon, raiders swarmed the low wall and into the sleeping city.

The pleas of defenceless Asur perfectly suited the merciless, unpitying and cruel atmosphere. Navarion saw the attackers moving down the street, waves of fireballs, lightning and other more sinister sorcery emanated forth from a loathsome Hag Sorceress; charring flesh and stone alike. Her pale hands rose and fell in bloodlust and an enthralling ecstasy as she muttered the dark words that summoned her baleful power. She cackled shrilly, every time her sorcery struck home. She wore no armour, the scarce clothing she did wear was at a minimum, black and purple clothes made her pale skin seen almost white. But her eyes, her eyes showed true extent of her evil.

As the foundations of the manor gave way, the last remnants of Navarions past were consumed buy the inferno. He bolted into an alley that came off the main street, the normally dark alley now a bright yellowish-orange; the dirt masking his soft footfall, as it absorbed the impact. He rounded the corner, sliding between two lage buildings; emerging on the other side.
This street had been as unsuccessful in avoiding devastation as the previous one. He scanned the area for his father, dreading that he may be one of the many fallen. Bloodied bodies littered the ground, in some places, piling atop one another, void eyes staring at nothing and everything, devoid of life. His eyes passed from face to face, recognising each of the dead. The blacksmith, the stable master, the guard, each had a story and each would be dearly missed. The bodies were everywhere.
A wave of horror engulfed him; some, he noticed, were still moving… He ran to the closest body that was still breathing. It was the newest mother in the village, Liyanya. Firmly held into her bosom was the form of her daughter, not yet 7 moons old. It appeared the Druchii had moved on from the street. He gently shook her shoulder; a low moan was the only reaction he got, aside from her irregular and pained inhalation.
Her deep blue dress bearing the signs of a struggle, a tear on the upper left torso, now damp with blood, hid a long thin cut, that trailed from just bellow her neck to the top of her breast. It looked painful, although not fatal. He went to gently move the infant further from the wound, to address it.

Liyanya’s dagger was out in an instant, she sat up at once, plunging the dagger at Navarions outstretched arm, like lightning his other arm shot out, dead halting the knife, a hair away from his flesh. She had tried to cut the hand that threatened her daughter.
“Liyanya! Liyanya! It is all right, I am here now. Your safe.” 
For now He thought bitterly. Her hate filled eyes now welled up as she crumpled under the emotional strain and wept openly into Navarions shoulder, her dark eyes still filled with the horrors of the night.
“Liyanya. You’re bleeding.” He said pulling her tenderly from his chest, he looked her strait in the eyes, holding her gaze, making sure she heard every word. “I need to tend it.” She nodded. But before she let him even look at the wound she scooped up he child, staring anxiously at the limp figure, she was on the edge of sanity, after what seemed an age, her newborn chest rose in a weak breath. A sigh of relief escaped, and with that she ceased her struggle to push off Navarion, who now saw to the wound. He lifted her up effortlessly and carried her and her child to the closest house that was not ablaze, or in immediate threat of it. As he placed her light figure down; a sound, a pure sound, of hope, of mourning, of readiness, the cry of a Phoenix; called to him. It meant only one thing; the Asur Battle Mages had entered the fight. 

“Liyanya, I must go, are you alright?” She made a soft mumble of assent, “I have to help the others.” He said more to himself than anyone else. He glanced at her baby and stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers, and brushed her hair out of her little eyes, “She will grow strong and tall like her mother.” He whispered, barely audible, with a soft kiss on her forehead he turned and ran towards the sound of the fray. Asuryian protect them, Isha, let them live this horrid night! He pleaded silently, before disappearing into the few shadows not stolen by the firelight.

The front rank of the Dark Elves went flaccid and lifeless as there very souls, if they could truly be called souls any longer, were sucked out of them, like air into lungs. Their breastplates and chainmail did nothing to stop their very life force being drained by potent High Elf Spells. Their armour imprisoning them inside the blistering hot tomb, as the Phoenix unleashed a firestorm of the pure and untainted Asur Magic.   

Mage Blain of Hoeth called to the Dark Elf Sorceress, “Come no further vile Druchii!” His voice was calm, cool and collect, but was said with such verve that it could only be interpreted as it was intended. A warning.
Beside Blain stood the two other High Elf Mages, dead and dying Dark Elves were scattered all around them, yet there were still well over two hundred left. The three stood defensively with Blain at their front. From behind them came the fatigued voices and calls of the depleted garrison, as they finished of the last of the of the latest Dark Elf assault.
So far the narrow street had served the High Elves well, stemming the tide of Druchii. Of the cities eighty-nine soldiers, twenty-one still lived. 
Blain opened himself to the winds of magic, beside him he felt the other two do so as well, he felt the energy fill him with its raw power, he formed the power into a single pool of energy; as all three combined their force. They passed the energy to Blain, he braced himself and lent slightly forwards. He raised his hands, his fingers bent  and sent a single, unseeable magical bolt at the Dark Elves. The closest Druchii doubled over, writhing in pain, as boiling blood came trickling from their eyes, nose and mouth. With no more warning than that they lay down, never to rise from their eternal damnation.

With that, Blain fell to his knees; exhausted, the other two Mages having been rendered unconscious by the force of the spell. His head dropped even as the remaining vanguard of the Druchii poured towards him, lead by the Hag. She walked casually forwards, taking time to anticipate the kill, as she approached the semi conscious Blain. She stopped in front of him and looked down at his broken form and laughed to herself. Her voice was sharp, and remorseless, filled with utter contempt for her cousins. “Malkieth will be pleased that so many of the Asur have died this day, soon the time will come when Malkieth has the throne. And when that time comes, the rest of your people will wish they were lucky enough to die like you.” She spat on him.
Blain forced himself awake and gazed pityingly at the Dark Elf. “Ulthuan is a candle of life, and you, most vile of cousins, are the darkness of night, try as it might the darkness can never extinguish the candlelight. The candle needs only to burn till the dawn, for then the sun will rise, and the darkness will be banished.” The Mage said, reciting the ancient proverb. “The sun will rise, and the true sons of Ulthuan will never fade!” He roared in defiance. Flames were spreading throughout the town.
“Your teachings mean nothing, Asur! Now you perish!” She raised her blade above her head and brought it down, straight towards his exposed neck.

Her stroke was halted mid swing by a blade that darted protectively from the left. The owner was young, but he held the sword steady and moved with unnatural skill. She had not seen him approach. His stance and voice were confident. He spoke scornfully and with barely suppressed hate. “You are blind, Druchii. I shall make you pay for every death here this day; I shall make you pray to the gods to end your life, fouled Elf-kin!” Then he was raining blows down upon her, too fast for her to even attempt to combat his strikes, his blade darting through her flesh, severing limbs with almost every stroke. He turned to the Dark Elf vanguard and raced into them, killing them with shocking speed. The garrison moved to cover his flanks and they drove the vanguard back once more. Blain swayed, then collapsed, unconscious, as his passed out his mind was accompanied by one thought, of the fierce warrior coming to his aid, of Navarion Ti Skyros.

The vanguard was cut down under the blades of the garrison, and at their head was Navarion. Stunned Dark Elf Nobles and Highborn’s now marshalled their soldiers for a full-scale charge, to crush the last of the Asur, who were fearlessly fighting to give the non-combatant Asur citizens time to escape with the wounded. The Dark Elves formed into ranks, eagerly awaiting the killing that was to come.

Navarion now noticed that they garrison was looking to him for leadership, why? He asked himself uncomprehendingly. They gathered around him anxiously watching the Dark Elf movements, awaiting orders. He spoke in barely a whisper, “My mother is dead. My father is dead. My blood kin are dead; and our people are dying or escaping.”

The Druchii were reforming, almost ready to charge. Navarion started speaking louder. “But we stand… It has fallen to us, the last warriors of this city, to defend the people of this land. I am not your commander; I cannot order you to fight. I come to you as your equal. There is a threat on our doorstep brothers, they have come to rape, pillage and kill.”

He began to shout. “I will not let this pass while I still draw breath! We are the sons of Ulthuan! We are of the pure blood of our ancestors! In our veins runs the blood of heroes! The blood of great and worthy champions!” The garrison cried their agreement in unison. “The city burns around us, the Druchii think the battle is won, let us show them what the sons of Ulthuan can really do! Let them rue the day they first set foot on this isle! Go forth and fear no enemy! Fear no darkness! For honour! For our dead! For Ulthuan!” He roared, charging into the reforming Dark Elves, catching them off guard, “Till death!”

He was one with everything, the wind, the fire, the garrison, the Dark Elves; they were all part of the same dance. He knew what to do, he knew his duty, he fought uncompromisingly, moving with the vigour of necessity. His blade rose and fell rhythmically, to the beat of the dance, never missing a step. Behind him he heard the Asur closing on the stunned Corsairs, the strangled gasps and the bloodied whispers of failing bodies heralding the demise of Asur and Druchii alike.
Navarion dispassionately cut down the Corsairs, moving ever deeper into their disorganised ranks, the garrison following him into the living ocean of darkness, with waves of cruel spears, sands of steel, storms of baleful bolts and seas of warriors.
The ocean parted itself to unearth two of it’s finest. They wore identical armour; its pale purple glow was dully reflected off the many razor like points that glinted menacingly, they were donned in jet black robes that even the firelight couldn’t seem to breach and illuminate. Their twin shields bore a sophisticated image of the two towers of the Black Arc, Har Garneth, on a leaf like outline. They carried massive draich swords that had been purposefully designed for tearing limbs off.
Their helmets had long tails of horsehair flowing out of them enchantingly, and slits for the eyes, nose and mouth, but nothing showed through the impenetrable shadows that hid them from the world. They acted in concerted, moving in tandem on opposites, when one raised his sword on the right, the other did so on the left, making them seem like warped mirrors of each other. They moved disdainfully tauntingly, echoes of times long past.

Flee, Hold off, hands raised, braced, die, last stand off, shadow, everywhere/nowhere, defeated, fighting retreat. 
Phoenix Blade c. b






Flee, Hold off, hands raised, braced, die, last stand off, shadow, everywhere/nowhere, defeated, fighting retreat. 
Phoenix Blade c. b





The woodlands of Chrace surrounded the small clearing, tall pines reaching for the sun, swaying back and forth in the breeze as if under a huge, unseen strain. The creatures of the forest called out to the evening sky, the first stars now glimmering in the darkening night. The clearing was bare except for a two-storied building, made of white marble that absorbed the fading light, seeming to glow from within. Magnificent archways adorned the outer walls, appearing like a forest of white trees, all interweaving in impossible patterns, it gave the impression of a hidden image was there just beyond conscious perception, and if one were to stare at it long enough, the picture would form out of the many elegantly designed doorways. The buildings beauty came from its simplicity, there were no extravagant sculptures or excentric tapestries, the illusions of white trees created by the arches, that, combined with the second story resembling a titanic tower overlooking a forest in the dead of winter, would amaze any whom gazed upon it.

Yet this is not what held Navarions gaze, Hy’aner stood motionlessly, leaning against the front doorway, she was wearing a dark blue gown, in places it was almost black, in others purple, contrasting with the marble, it had thin sleeves that extended the lengths of her arms; held in place with silver lace. The dress clung to her tall, thin figure, the gown itself was plain in design, there was a cut on the right side of it, running from the bottom to just above her knee allowing movement. Astoundingly well-sewn flames of a valiant, vivid, frost blue, that seemed to dance about, her hid the cut masterfully. From the centre of the flames, where they rose highest, was the image of a Phoenix breaking free of the fire, wings spread as if it had broken the fiery chains that bound it, and was eager to make up for lost time.

Her hair was swept back in a simple, yet elegant manner, a few strands at her the side of her face, about a hands length, were left in graceful wisps that fell across her face, in a light brown, almost blonde tint. They waved up and down in the light wind, just in front of her intense and intelligent, ice blue eyes, making them seem even brighter, as if peering from behind a golden veil.
The sun had kissed her skin, to a radiant bronzed colour, which seemed to perfectly balance and compliment the night-like darkness of her dress.

The tall grey, stonewalls were no more an obstacle than stairs to Navarion, the rough stone had plentiful cracks and fissures for footholds and places to latch onto, he found them with no trouble, clearly visible to his Elven eyes, even in the late dark. The rain poured down heavily, making his scaling of the walls that little more tedious.
After somersaulting himself easily over the battlements protective outer wall, he had his first glimpse of the town. He crouched on the inner ledge, bow at the ready, although not yet knocked. It was small, for a town, He decided, the crude architecture common in human lands was evident right through the towns design. To the Eastern Gate their appeared to be an Inn, The Fox and the Squirrel, the villagers called it, it’s real name having being forgotten during it’s many change of hands. It was small, but appeared to be large enough to accommodate the few travellers through these parts, the sound of music and laughter was quite loud, despite the distance between him and the tavern, light flooded out of the open doors along with the smell of roast beef. His gaze returned to the settlement, a sign showing two black anvils crossing each other over a yellow background, marked the smithy. There were other signs, but none of them really attracted his eye, he kept searching till he found it at last. To the northern quadrant of the city a large tower stood out as the guards quarters. He would have to enter there before he went on into the small keep in the centre of the village on top of a low hill. There his objective lay, most likely asleep.

He leapt down the 20 paces, off the wall and landed silently, rolling on the paved roadways to absorb the impact, merging with the shadows. His cloak distorting his silhouette, making him invisible to all observers. He strung his bow across his back, moving silently in the Dragon Walk, keeping himself low to the ground in a creeping pose, he approached the guard tower, unheard, unseen, unknown, undetectable. A pair of heavy footsteps approached, he pushed himself deep into a shadowy alley, and wrapped his hooded cloak around himself, his face already masked by a black material, covering from his nose down, he became part of his surroundings. The guards walked past; without ever knowing an unseen watcher was hidden against the walls so nearby.

They never did.

Noiselessly he snuck out of the alley after the two, upon noticing the gold sash on the older of the two men’s shoulder, identifying him as a captain. He will be useful. He thought, impulsively drawing his knife from his belt, he approached.

Captain Jarrdok saw Recruit Herat fall in a crumpled pile in a flurry of movement, no sooner than the body had begun to collapse, he found himself with a knife pressed against his throat, he did not dare to move. Instead he looked ahead and in a forced calm, said, “I knew Lord Beron would not stand for my command any longer.” He laughed mockingly “Do what it is you have come to do, I’ll not beg, nor plead. Know I die aware that the town will not stand up for his tyranny forever. Be quick with it, before I raise the nerve to strike at you!” His words were said with defiance lacing every syllable.
“ If all goes well you will not die tonight, you will have many years ahead of you. Do not be so willing to accept death, he, like others, can be persuaded to wait.” The voice sounded intimidating, but it almost had a song like quality to it; the last few words were said nearly as if the assailant found it amusing.
“Who are you?”
“That matters not. What does, however, is why I am here. This “Lord Beron” you speak of,” He said the name with obvious disgust. “He is hated by the people?”
“Yes. But the people do nothing while the thugs he has hired as new guards, loyal only to him, enforce his cruel will.”
“It would seem that we have a problem then… Why has your Empire not dealt with him?” He asked accusingly.
Again Captain Jarrdok laughed derisively. “As long as he sends them their yearly taxes, the Empire will pay no attention to a small town on its borders. What do you have in mind?”
The way the assailant replied chilled the Captain more than his unconscious companion, even more than the knife against his throat.
“I am here to kill Lord Beron and every loyal follower of him before dawn breaks.” It was not just what he said, but how he said it; it was not hate filled, nor was their anger, nor enjoyment, or sentiment of any kind. It was just an assignment. He said it as casually as if he had repeated what he had had for breakfast.
“He has over thirty ruffian swine guarding him. He is not one for chances. You are but one, unless I am mistaken. One, against a fortress, with thirty armed thugs.”
“Then I best get started.” He replied, firm and confident, in that outlandish and pleasant accent, filling the Captain with memories of a glorious past, one that was more ancient and more refined than the Empire had ever been. A thought fell into place in his mind. He decided to check his assumption.
“Why would the people of Ulthuan send an Assassin to kill a lord in a small Empire town?” The Captain asked cautiously. 
“Why would a lord of a small empire town take some of the people of Ulthuan?” Came the Elf’s bitter retort.
The blade pushed against his neck tightened its grip, pressing ever deeper, causing searing pain.
“ I… have…. Not… heard… a thing… about this!” He struggled to call, in ragged gasps, above the driving rain.
He felt the knife’s grip ease.*
« Last Edit: October 21, 2007, 13:09:18 PM by Akhilleus » Logged

Curiosity Killed The Cat, But For A While, I Was A Suspect.

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« Reply #1 on: April 17, 2008, 18:45:08 PM »

Im guessing you love your warhammer too. And english GT is grand tournament im also guessing. I entered Perth GT as well for 40k and am building my skaven army as we speak. I only read a bit of the story and if indeed you wrote it yourself and wasnt taken from elsewhere is is quite interesting and depicts a good battlefield and storyline. Time is running out but cheers for posting your story and hopefully more people will comment you rather than just view. I just wrote a quick story on anther board for IO ingame stories for realm 3. Not quite as specific but its a start. Goodluck and Godbless!!
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